


Getting Good — (Do You Remix)

by brookebond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A lot of introspection, Arthur POV, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15657066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond
Summary: Arthur always loved going home.





	Getting Good — (Do You Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Do You (Run When It's Just Getting Good)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605139) by [VIII_XIII](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VIII_XIII/pseuds/VIII_XIII). 



> A small exploration of Arthur back home.
> 
> Hover over _italicised_ foreign language text for translations! (Mobile and tablet users please see the Ending Notes)

Arthur dragged a comb through his hair as he exited the bathroom, already dressed and ready to go. He’d set his watch to the time back home, trying to get a jumpstart on acclimating to being back there—and getting used to not fishing for his cellphone every time he wanted to check something. He never wanted the temptation of easy access to Eames when he was vulnerable so a watch was the best option. The fact his mother had gifted him the watch as a graduation present made the whole switch easier to deal with. Of course, it didn’t make leaving Eames any easier.

Arthur glanced over at Eames, still under the pile of blankets they had both curled under the night before.

“You have a flight,” Eames said, catching Arthur off-guard.

“Going home,” Arthur said, slipping the comb into his back pocket as he tried to cover his startlement. “To see my mom. It’s her birthday this week.” It isn’t until after the words are out that Arthur realises he’s perhaps shared more than he had planned. Eames somehow manages to bring Arthur’s walls down, letting all sorts of intimate details slip out that Arthur would rather keep hidden. But, judging by the look that passes across Eames’ face, that information has already been stored away for later use and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“Say hi to your mum for me,” Eames said, finally sitting up and resting against the headboard. The sheets pooling around his waist, revealing his terrible tattoos and distracting Arthur almost enough for him to forget that Eames had spoken.

It was the way for Arthur, everything about Eames rendered him useless. Eames’ entire existence was a puzzle designed to torment Arthur and he had spent years attempting to piece it all together.

“I always do,” he replied, letting the hint of truth linger just to see what Eames’ response would be.

When he didn’t get a reply, Arthur grabbed his suitcase and slipped from the room.

Every time they parted ways, Arthur found it more and more difficult to leave. Despite having told himself he wouldn’t get attached, the bond between them was more solid, more tangible, harder to pull away from, and Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to pull away. It was a sign that it was time to put this whole thing to rest, to end it before there was no turning back.

—

Home was how he’d left it save for the fact his mother was currently in his kitchen baking up a storm. He’d called ahead to let her know he was boarding the plane and shouldn’t have been surprised she was there already—and had been for a while judging by the sheer number of cookies covering every surface in the kitchen.

“Are we expecting company?” he asked, leaning against the door jamb.

“Not at all, sweetheart,” she replied as she took another tray out of the oven, setting it on the stove top before turning to face Arthur. “You look tired.”

Arthur huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s been a long few months.”

“You work too hard.” She moved around the island to embrace him. “You need to settle down, set some roots—”

“Mom,” he sighed, cutting off her usual spiel. “It’s not that easy.”

“It could be. You like making things complicated,” she said, lighting slapping his shoulder as she pulled away. “How’s that boy of yours?”

“Don’t call him that.” Arthur grimaced, turning to pull out a container that would most likely only hold a third of the cookies, if that. He’d only told her about Eames—mentioned that there was someone he was seeing—because he hadn’t wanted to be set up with another of her friends’ sons. As soon as the half-truth had slipped from his lips, Arthur had felt free. He was grateful to be able to talk about Eames with someone that didn’t already know him. He liked being able to share things, especially with his mom.

“Eames, then. How is he?” It was a loaded question, his mom’s eager tone hinting that she wanted more details than Arthur was willing to give. Eames was a tender subject, something she understood but always seemed to press anyway.

“He’s fine,” he replied, stacking cookies in the container while he kept his back to his mother. He may have been an expert liar when it came to his job, but Arthur always seemed to fail at hiding things from his mother. She knew all his ticks, all the little tells that gave him away. “I saw him for a few days before he had to go to England,” he added before his mother decided to point out his obvious hedging.

“That must have been nice.”

Arthur hummed, closing the lid over the container, the satisfying click letting him know it was air-tight. “How ‘bout Thai for dinner?”

—

Coming home was Arthur’s favourite thing in the world. Though home wasn’t a place, home was his mother; wherever she happened to be in the world. That was the home he loved returning to or calling when he was feeling a little homesick, not that he’d ever let anyone he worked with know that occasionally that’s why he was a little shorter than he needed to be.

He knew the rumours floating through dreamshare about him: he was a tight-assed dick who desperately needed to get laid, he was ‘ _ bête comme ses pieds _ ’ and only pretending to know what he was talking about, he had a stick up his ass. Every insult or rumour had come from his bad temper and desperate wishing to be back with his mom or even just living a normal life, maybe having a few cats that he could curl up with and watch terrible television shows. Of course, that was just wishful thinking when the reality was so far from that. As it was, there was every possibility he’d never leave dreamshare, that the next job would be his last.

Refusing to dwell on that line of thought for too long, Arthur rolled over, curling an arm beneath his pillow and ignoring that aching emptiness inside him after having had the pleasure of sleeping beside Eames. It always hurt the most the first few days apart but Arthur knew he would get over it, his turned off cellphone tucked away in a drawer would help as well, even if Eames haunted his thoughts most hours of the day.

—

A week passed much as they did when Arthur was back home; he took his mother to the museum, an art gallery or two, they even ate out a few times before she complained that he was wasting his money. After that, Arthur dove into his cookbooks, rediscovering recipes he’d been meaning to try and had forgotten about. Being home was the most glorious thing in the world and, up until his laptop had pinged with an email from Dom about a new job, Arthur had nearly forgotten about his other life.

The details were bare-boned, just enough to create a simmer of interest to send Arthur rummaging through his drawers looking for his cellphone. He had a team to build and Eames was at the top of the list.

He held the phone in his hand, running a finger over the power button as he debated with himself. As soon as he turned it back on, Arthur knew his little holiday would be over, the real world would settle in, filling him as uncomfortably as it always did.

Curiosity won out.

There were the standard messages; Dom letting Arthur know how the kids were doing, Nash begging to be let back into their good graces, and somehow a message from his phone company for an extra data pack that he had absolutely no use for.

But what piqued Arthur’s interest were three messages from Eames. They didn’t message, not for personal reasons, and Arthur’s heart pounded just a little bit faster as he opened the first message.

The first was a shirtless picture of Eames. He was clearly poolside, ridiculous sunglasses covering most of his face, lips pouted and accentuating them in a way that was making desire curl deep inside Arthur, and a cocktail. Arthur took his time admiring the photo, fingers itching to reach out and trace those terrible tattoos like he had the last time they’d been together. Arthur admired the picture for a while, letting his gaze linger on the lower part of the image, filling in the blanks. He pictures Eames wearing a pair of ridiculously small trunks, possibly even a pair of speedos since that was definitely more his speed.

Arthur dragged his gaze from the picture to check the message that had come with it.

_ Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ve got loads of sunblock on. _

Arthur shook his head, remembering exactly what Eames was getting at. He’d taken it upon himself to let Eames know just how much he hated the tattoos that covered his upper body but he’d been honest. While the tattoos were absolutely questionable, they were well done and Arthur would have hated them more if they were blurry, faded unidentifiable blobs. It was a miracle Eames had listened let alone remembered enough to take the time to smother himself in sunscreen.

He opened the next message, scanning it quickly.

_ I didn’t mean to be obnoxious. Sorry if I annoyed you. Hope you’re having a lovely time. Tell your mum your loyal business partner says happy birthday. _

The tone was obviously remorseful, apologetic for the picture that had been sent the day before and Arthur nearly replied to this one to tell Eames he hadn’t been obnoxious, maybe even send a picture in return. But there was another message waiting, one that had been sent two days after the apology.

_ You know, I don’t know what kind of bullshit boundaries you’ve set between us, but if they’re going to include me sucking your dick but exclude replying to a bloody text, count me out. I’m tired of wondering what the hell is going on between us, but now that I’m beginning to figure it out I don’t think I like what I’m finding. You can’t have a friend with benefits who isn’t actually your friend, Arthur. I wish you all the best but I think that maybe you and I should work with other people. _

Arthur gripped his phone, fingers tightening until the small piece of technology creaked. Eames had always been a hothead, jumping in with both feet first and worrying about the consequences later. But he had clearly thought on these words for a while, letting them simmer under the surface and Arthur had to wonder just how long it had all been building. Though, Arthur couldn’t believe that audacity since Eames didn’t do relationships, he’d made that clear four years prior in Brazil.

“You fucking bastard,” Arthur growled, locking his phone and tossing it on his desk before wandering off to the kitchen.

Arthur went straight to the cupboard with his pitiful alcohol collection, grabbing the whiskey he’d bought last time he’d been in Scotland and pouring himself half a tumbler. “Not actually friends,” he muttered, taking a large swig of his drink, coughing slightly as it burned on the way down. It had been a while since he’d had this particular brand and had obviously forgotten it was made for savouring rather than downing as fast as humanly possible. But, he didn’t mind the pain. It offered clarity, something to hone in on and help him create a plan, a response to Eames’ message.

Downing the remainder of the drink, Arthur left his glass on the bench and stalked back to his desk, grabbing the phone he had carelessly tossed and tapping out a quick message.

_ So I’ve had this phone turned off all week. _

He knew he didn’t have to explain himself for anything, he didn’t owe Eames anything especially since they apparently weren’t even friends. But Arthur’s traitorous heart demanded to be heard, to have a chance to defend itself.

The text flowed out of him without pause but once the words stopped, Arthur stared down at it, offended by the message. He sounded like an idiot, desperately wanting to make Eames take those words back. Arthur didn’t want to work with other people but he didn’t want to look like a hopeless basket case.

He deleted the message and typed out a new one that left him feeling much more satisfied with the general sense it gave.

_ I turned it back on this morning to call you and ask when you want to take another job. But at this point, I think that if you’d like to discuss why I turned the phone off in the first place, you should come see me. _

His address followed, hoping no one unsavoury would get their hands on it before he was able to delete it from Eames’ phone.

Arthur waited half an hour before turning his phone off. He figured if Eames hadn’t responded by then, he wasn’t going to. But he still sat at his desk, opening his laptop and several applications to track Eames. This was familiar, the keys underneath his fingers, the information darting across the screen. It took two minutes to find where Eames had been, which hotel he’d stayed in, and that Eames had checked out ten minutes ago.

He tracked Eames to the airport and watched from the security feed as Eames booked a ticket—double-checking that it actually was to Chicago—before Arthur closed his laptop and ran a hand through his hair. He had at least three and a half hours before Eames showed up, less than that before his mom was over, enough time to freshen up and start dinner. His mom loved lasagna and it had always gone down well with guests.

Arthur wondered if Eames would like it as well.

—

The knock came while Arthur and his mom were setting the table, putting out two placings even though he knew Eames was on his way—his laptop had chimed earlier, alerting him to the fact that Eames’ plane had landed and that Eames had jumped into a cab.

“I’ll get it,” his mom called, leaving Arthur to finish laying the table by himself.

“Oh!” the exclamation came, drawing Arthur toward the door. “Hello.”

“Um,” Eames said, clearly confused and trying to figure out how to backtrack.

Arthur stepped into the hallway, slipping into the space between his mother and the door and saving Eames from saying something stupid. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bête comme ses pieds = Dumb as hell.


End file.
